


A Disappearance Gathering Weight

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [32]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 707 OV, Gen, Grief, Jahara, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-07
Updated: 2007-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Larsa makes 'Captain Azelas' sound like someone Basch had never met.</cite></p><p>Spoilers to Jahara.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Disappearance Gathering Weight

The scent of roasting meat has given way to the herbal burning of nannablakes, and the sounds of music, of dance, to quieter conversations and the coursing of the Sogoht. The garif call Jahara a city, but it is one by their standards, not those of humes. Basch sits alone by this fire, and he can see no one across it, only the boundary fence and beyond it the high grasses of the plains swaying with the night winds.

Fran and Balthier disappeared somewhere, together, much earlier in the evening. Vaan and Penelo are down by the river, taking their turns sparring among the younger garif. Basch can hear their voices cheering, higher pitched than their companions. He does not know where the princess has gone, but he does not think she will leave Jahara and their hosts have his trust. Though they mask their faces, their hospitality is honest, its restrictions as plain as their generosity. They seem good people.

Light, quick footsteps approach Basch from the centre of the village. They pause behind him, and someone coughs, clearing their throat.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Ronsenburg. May I join you?" Larsa Solidor stands to Basch's right, one palm held outstretched toward the fire even though they are guests alike here.

Basch has never had much experience, or patience, with court diplomacy. He nods once, and turns back to watching the fire. The boy settles himself onto the rug beside Basch, matching his crossed legs. He watches Basch.

They sit in silence. Jahara's night smells are dust and hides, dry grass and the nanna, smoke. Basch licks the point of his tongue slowly over his teeth, at the traces of the meaty stew that was Jahara's communal evening meal. It had been spiced, but with flavours pungent and earthy rather than the sour heat typical of Dalmascan fare.

"Captain Azelas does not travel with you. Does he stay in Bhujerba?"

No one has spoken Vossler's name to Basch in weeks. He watched Ashe draw in on herself as their party recrossed the Westersand, speaking little if at all by the time they reached Rabanastre. Basch had thought he understood, thought she was grieving as he grieved. But when he presumed to ask, she had corrected him fiercely.

"He fell with your eighth fleet," Basch says.

Larsa's soft exclamation of shock seems genuine. Rabanastrans know of the fleet's destruction, if they can only guess at how or where, and why would the Archadians tell their children any more than that. Basch should say something more, explain Vossler's part, but the words he would need are unfamiliar now and the boy centres himself quickly.

"I am sorry. Our paths crossed only briefly, but Captain Azelas seemed a man of great honour and integrity when we spoke on Leviathan. His passing is surely a blow to all our hopes for peace."

Vossler had been a good man, driven by fates larger than his own. Larsa makes 'Captain Azelas' sound like someone Basch had never met.

Basch turns away from the fire. "Did you speak to Vossler of your peace?"

"I did," the boy says. "We did not have long to speak, but it seemed a profitable exchange. I had thought we would be allies."

"You would offer Lady Ashe her crown. Did you tell that to Vossler? Did you send him to Ghis?"

"I cannot apologise sufficiently for Ghis' deportment. If this is how my countrymen present Archadia to the world, I begin to understand why we are so hated. But I would assure you that what I have proposed is not a question of the Empire making Lady Ashe a queen. There are other interested parties that I... would rather not mention at this early stage, but I give you my word, I seek only to stand for Archadia's desire for the prevention of this war, for peace. The Gran Kiltias--"

"I cannot speak for Her Majesty," Basch says, cutting through the boy's speech. "Nor do I have her ear if you think to bend mine." He should have known better than to ask.

The boy dips his head once. "Please forgive my enthusiasm. There were few at court who claimed foreign birth."

Larsa holds Basch's gaze, his carefully sympathetic smile finally faltering. Basch feels as if the apology means something more than he understands, but it is not his place to teach the boy that Dalmasca has not feared strangers the way the empire has done for decades. If Ashe will not hear his counsel, it is not because Basch is a son of Landis.

"Hey, Basch!" Penelo calls out from down the trail. "Larsa, so that's where you went! We've been looking all over for you."

Larsa scrambles to stand, wiping at his breeches with his hands. "Penelo."

She casts a knowing glance at Basch, but her smile for Larsa is fond. "Vaan and I are setting up our bedrolls. You want to join us?"

"Yes. I mean-- Captain Ronsenburg, would you--?"

"Sleep well," Basch tells them, and he can follow their path, their laughter, with his ears.

The wind is cool over Basch's back. Sitting so close to the fire, he can feel the heat it brings to his face, his calves and his hands that have rested loosely on his knees. Basch reaches up to close the sides of his collar together over his throat, and watches the fire in front of him consume its fuel. They had been lucky. The Shiva had been positioned at the edge of the fleet. They hadn't known about whatever Ghis did to the Dawn Shard. They hadn't seen the waves of golden fire gutting the fleet, not until they'd left the Shiva, and by then, it was too late to say anything, let alone--

Basch drops his hand. He should get some rest of his own.


End file.
